


I Keep Fixing Every Habit (That I Break)

by apackofsmokes



Series: Clownin' Around [5]
Category: DCU, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Batman, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Genderfluid Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Masked Vigilantes, Mental Instability, Recreational Drug Use, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, electroshock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:16:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8893894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apackofsmokes/pseuds/apackofsmokes
Summary: Stiles’ main problem was Theo Raeken. Or more likely, the lack thereof.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops, sorry this took a trillion years! All my love and thanks to my wonderful betas <3
> 
> If I missed any tags lmk :)

 

Derek watches Stiles slip out of his bedroom window, knowing without a doubt that Stiles will land soundly from the third-story ledge. Can picture his fluid limbs tucking and soaring until his feet hit the ground, his fingertips brushing grass, his mischievous eyes glowing gold in the sunlight.

Always tumbling and falling away from Derek.

To _Theo._

Stiles' re-entry into their lives -  _Derek’s life –_ and his speedy departure leave millions of questions and very few answers rushing into his head.

Some detective he is.

He just keeps telling himself that it's a damn complicated mess and only getting worse as the minutes tick away. A pretty lacking comfort, but better than nothing.

He knows it all comes down to the fact that even with all the heartbreak and damage left in Stiles’ wake, he can't fault him for leaving. No, everything he said that night in the Batcave was true. Derek did abandon Stiles to fend off his loss and grief alone – too caught up in his own pain. Trying so hard to make it right.

But Derek, of all people, should've known that the truth doesn't necessarily mean peace. And it certainly doesn't bring anyone back from the dead.

John Stilinski had been like a father to him since the night Derek's house burned with his parents inside. Derek, his sisters, little Isaac, and Peter arriving on the scene too late. Not able to do anything but watch as flames swallowed their home, their family. 

Even having been just a captain then, John was kind and honest. Swearing he’d find the criminal who did it and bring them to justice. The very same promise Derek made to Stiles years later standing over his father's bullet-riddled corpse.

Maybe if he had been there after too - when Stiles needed him most – there would have been no need for him to run off with Theo.

They could’ve been happy.

Instead, they all face the consequences of Derek’s misstep. He should’ve kept a closer eye on John, should've kept him safe. Because everything from the moment Stiles lost his last remaining parent was an unfortunate chain reaction which led to the present.

Guilt upon guilt.

Did that make him more terrible to forgive Stiles as quickly as he did, or less? Was he weak to any circumstance that made it possible for him to hold Stiles again? Just the press of his body against Derek’s was a fresh stitch across the wound he’d left. Sure it stung and pulled, but it was _healing._

Scott seemed to agree (though maybe that was his blind optimism and his own tendency to let Stiles skirt by). Cora ignored them all, but Isaac… was a challenge. He’d spat out some snide remark along the lines of Stiles’ insanity being an STD.

Derek had rolled his eyes and threw his dirty laundry over the banister. After that Isaac started ignoring him as well. Only showing his disdain by switching out Derek’s morning (midday, night, 2am) coffee for decaf, then snapping unflattering photos of Derek asleep and setting them as the Batcomputer’s wallpaper.

The thing is, when Derek took it upon himself to start this crusade – to rid Beacon’s streets of its infestation – he surrendered all hope of normal relationships. Putting himself in harm's way was one thing, but someone he loved? Not a chance.

It was bad enough Cora and Isaac were involved.

Cora, who took a year to travel, to learn things she couldn't in Beacon. On her return, she forced Derek to train her day and night until they both felt she was ready.

Derek never would.

But she’s a Hale, and he learned long ago not to go against a Hale woman after she’s made a decision. Plus, his little sister could flatten him to a training mat faster than Scott.

Isaac, who instead of college chose to enlist in the military for a tour, much like his late brother Camden. So young but determined to make a name for himself among his fellow soldiers. He and Scott sharing written correspondence through all their separation. Sometimes his dog tags still chime under his suits, and Derek wonders what put that shadow in his adoptive brother’s eyes. He doesn't ask. Isaac doesn't offer.

Even Scott had become like a brother to him with years of companionable partnership and of missing the same person.

They weren’t misfit toys – it was a point of his to be sure they’d fit in any place of their choosing – more like people who needed to not be alone. From that they became family.

He’d made his mistake pushing Stiles away and learned not to make it again. And while he couldn't stop them from dragging on his cape tail to each bigger and more dangerous case. But better they know how to survive than end up another statistic on the evening news.

As for Stiles... these days he's more likely to be the cause of the danger than in need of anyone’s protection.

When he was a child, he had fantasies of being in love like his parents, of raising children like he and his siblings were raised. A home filled with love and kindness and warmth. But after the League of Assassins’ second-in-command, Kate Argent, had used him to kill his mother and father, after Peter had become a broken psychotic shell of himself and made it so Laura would never come back to them, he didn't want love anymore. Training with Chris Argent’s faction of the League – who only conceded to Derek’s request out of misplaced guilt – was supposed to cure him of naive dreams about soulmates and happy endings. Feelings only made you weak and got you killed.

Or worse, the people you care for.

And yet, within five minutes of meeting one Stiles Stilinski, he was gone. Hook, line, and sinker.

At the time, he was unaware of Stiles’ age (and wouldn't find out until a month later, the little deviant). Out of the immense respect he held for John, he should have told him how he felt about Stiles. But he was scared and young, already keeping piles of secrets. What was a hidden relationship compared to the dangers of being Batman?

He couldn’t give up Stiles then, and he’ll keep him as long as he’s allowed now. Since the second they locked eyes from across the BCPD’s overcrowded charity gala – when Derek simultaneously couldn't catch his breath and felt like he was taking his first, dizzy with the amount of possibility laid out before them – he never wanted to stop.

Despite how things played out, he could still see it. Every string connecting them, every future they could have and might have one day.

And though they seem to be starting over, their relationship (if he could even call it that) is fragile and temperamental at best. He meant what he told Stiles – he does love him and always will. Nothing prepared him for the look Stiles returned: conflicted, determined.

Needless to say, Derek’s main problem was Theo Raeken.

 

*

 

**_Downtown Beacon, Apartment of Lydia Martin and Erica Reyes_ **

 

Stiles’ main problem was Theo Raeken. Or more likely, the lack thereof.

His body ached: his head, heart, dick. The anticipation building every block that brought Stiles closer to Lydia’s was equally electric and draining. He’d left with a hangover and felt as though he was returning the same. Can you get a hangover from righteousness?

He’s beginning to understand how depriving animals of their baser needs makes them weapons. Stiles’ vision had been tinted red since Lydia’s call; everyone on the street starts to look like his next meal, a victim, a release.

Where was his evil sobriety chip? Is there no prize for not committing double homicide in a house crowded with his supposed enemies?

What he really needed was a good violent fuck and blood coating his skin – be it Theo’s, a stranger’s, or his own. That was what Derek couldn’t give him. Between soft gazes and softer sheets, between Derek’s gentle arms and devastatingly beautiful thighs, it wasn’t enough.

Theo, though, was all sharp edges, piercing him in just the right way. Like swallowing glass with an itchy throat.

He’s nearly halfway there when a young couple eyes him from their stoop as he passes by on the sidewalk. The way to Lydia’s apartment bisects through one of Beacon’s better neighborhoods, all townhouses in multicolored pastels. He must stick out atrociously in his usual getup, neck covered in purple and yellow bruises from Derek’s mouth and gun at his hip.

Licking his teeth, he sucks in a growl. They skitter into the safety of their periwinkle monstrosity, and he huffs a laugh.

The amusement doesn't last long when his thoughts start bouncing around. Was Theo coming to take him home or kill him? Would he be greeted with biting kisses or stinging acid? Either could mean he was missed or in a shitload of trouble.

He taps his fingers anxiously against his thighs as he walks, counting the extra bullets in his pocket by touch and taking a mental inventory of every knife on his person – wondering just how much ammo this reunion required.

A small voice in his head whispers, _what if Theo knows where you’ve been_?

_No_ , he corrects himself. If Theo had known Stiles was with Derek, they would’ve been eating napalm for breakfast instead of waffles. Talk about a hypothetically scorned lover.

Distracted, in no time Stiles is deep in The Narrows, hopping up the creaky stairs to the girls’ door. Should he knock? Fuck, he’s fidgeting like a high-schooler again. And here he thought Derek made him feel like a kid...

But Theo makes him feel so many different things – like so many different _people._ A ditz. A genius. A king. Worthless. Theo could lift him up and tear him down in the same breath. A game, like everything else.

Luckily, Stiles was good at games: mind, love, board. Some might even say it’s where he excelled. Probably the reason why Peter panted after his ass relentlessly.

_Fuck it._

He turns the knob and swings the door open almost violently from nerves. At this point he might as well have kicked that fucker down with the way every head turns in his direction.

Stepping in he sees Tracy and Josh, Theo’s trusted lackeys. Or as trusted as Theo was capable of. Meaning Corey and thankfully Donovan were back at the lair doing whatever henchpeople did in their not so free time.

They were the only bunch who stuck by Theo through his multiple incarcerations and murder attempts. Besides Stiles, of course.  
  
Those four had their spade tattoos on their wrists, never covered. The more visible, the higher the rank. They held pride in carrying Theo’s mark; what criminal wouldn’t? But still, no one wore it so blatantly proud as Stiles.

Marked on his left cheek, just under where the black of his mask reached, it was a statement. All the criminals – hell the entire city – knew who he belonged to. That he was not to be touched by anyone other than Theo. The initials carved into his hip were more intimate, something between lovers. Theo traces each letter with his thumb as he slams into Stiles every night. But the black ink of the spade, blending seamlessly with his moles, was permanent warpaint. It was loyalty. Loyalty that Theo was about to put into question.

 And yet, Stiles is breathing easier than he has in a month.

Then he sees Theo, sitting casually at the head of the dining room table. He's muttering - most probably due to boredom – to Lydia’s Venus Flytrap. “You are without a doubt the ugliest ficus I’ve ever seen.” But when his eyes raise to Stiles, a grin graces his face getting splendidly wider until it's full on terrifying.

Stiles wants to shrink away and beg forgiveness. His knees go weak. Also scratch that part about breathing, his can't seem to catch.

In a brief moment of clarity he mentally sighs in relief; Theo isn't wearing his venomous boutonnière. Good, one less projectile to worry about. But he _is_ dressed in a dark purple leather coat and matching gloves, over a well fitted olive suit with yellow accents. His green tipped hair styled wildly at the top and short on the sides. Theo had let it grow longer, he notes, like Stiles had asked him to months ago.

Goddamn it, how was he suppose to stay strong in the face of _this,_ when he’d be scanning the room for the sturdiest surface to bend over if he could take his eyes off Theo for five fucking seconds. He can't, doesn't even try.

Theo licks his lips and purrs, “Hello, lover.”

Stiles lets out a sounds that's somewhere between a squeak and a moan, “Theo.”

Theo beckons him forward with a curled finger, and Stiles damn near runs to crawl into his lap but is stopped by a vine wrapping around his middle.

Lydia.

He’d like to say he wondered where she was, but he totally didn't. How could he? Theo was _right there._

“So much for self respect, huh, Stilinski?”

And there’s Erica.

Stiles bristles, no matter how right she is. “I'll have have you know, I'm a strong indecent person who don't need no man.”

Lydia lifts a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Don't you mean independent?”

“That too.”

Both girls roll their eyes in tandem, and Theo is looking less and less amused – which usually equals trouble for anyone within a 10 block radius. Unfortunately, this includes Stiles, and he’d rather not die on a Thursday. It's a lull in the week and a pretty shitty one to be his last _._  

Theo pipes up, standing from his seat before the girls can say anything else, “Well this has been fun. Stiles collect your things; we have places to be.” His tone goes malicious. “ _You_ have places to be.”

The words tear into Stiles, like it was _his_ choice. Like _he_ was the one who abandoned Theo and not deftly avoided being skewered in their joint lair. Like _he’s_ the one who should be on his knees groveling.

His own indignation fuels the anger that should have reared itself upon seeing his ex-boyfriend. Erica was right; self respect was an island Stiles was becoming accustomed to, more than a vacation spot. He’s worth a hell of a lot more than the credit he gets.

And Theo knows it.

The entire room tenses as Stiles all but radiates fury. “Why should I, huh? I’ve been just fine on my own.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re the one who called me drunk and crying like a preteen girl–‘ _I’m sorry Daddy, I love you, I need you,_ ’” Theo mocks. “That sure doesn’t sound fine to me, Pet.”

Stiles’ face heats, and he can hazard a guess that any exposed skin from his cheeks down is flaming as red as the ends of his hair. “That’s not–”

He looks to the girls who are both wearing matching looks of disgust. Just when he thought there wasn’t any pride left to lose, there it goes right out the fucking window. Goodbye island, aloha Beacon City.

Stiles struggles to find a comeback, instead shouting weakly, “You kicked me out!”

“So?”

“You threw a knife at my face!”

“Since when has that ever bothered you?”

That stops him short; when _had_ that ever bothered him?

_Has seeing Derek Hale really made you this fucking brave?_

Derek Derek Derek. His life was going fucking swimmingly before that night in the warehouse. At the time he’d thought he was scoring big by catching Batman and giving him to Theo, wrapped and topped with a goddamn bow. But of course it was just Stiles’ luck that Batman was the only person who could potentially ruin everything while simultaneously locking it into place.

A gift. A curse.  

“Maybe,” Stiles starts, “maybe we shouldn't get back together just yet.” It isn’t what Stiles wants to say and clearly not what Theo wants to hear. A jaw clench gives him away.

Now _this_ is fun.

“What the hell are you talking about? That you don't want to be my _boyfriend_ anymore?” Theo asks, spitting out the word like a swear.

Theo hates labeling their relationship. Like the term boyfriends is demeaning and beneath him. Stiles thinks it has something to do with them either being more or less than the word defines. With Theo it really depends on the day.

Stiles screeches internally at how hard Theo’s actually trying to appease him. Best to take full advantage because it can't possibly last past this conversation.

“Is that what we are?” Stiles drags out, purposely apathetic. It’s obviously pointless, what with the way Stiles acted not even two minutes ago, but Theo takes the bait all the same.  

“Why you little–”

“Ah ah,” Stiles wags his finger. “What’s in it for me? You said yourself, I’m not fine. In fact, one might say I’m hurt.”

Predictably – or as predictable as a crazed clown psychopath gets – Theo sneers and mumbles, “Oh, you’re something alright…” Then huffs, “Would it help if I say I’m sorry?” Stiles worries his bottom lip, putting on a huge show of thinking it over, and if Stiles were anyone else (not including the people in this room and well… Derek), they would hear sincerity in Theo’s voice when he urges, “What do I have to do to prove I mean it, baby?”  
  
Not missing a beat, Stiles cocks his gun and aims at Theo’s heart. "Would you take a bullet for me?"  
  
"Oh Pet, for you?" He gestures for Josh to bring Stiles a shimmering purple box with a bright yellow bow. "I'd take a whole gun."  
  
Stiles narrows his eyes but holsters his weapon, untying the bow slowly and lifting the lid to find the most gorgeous gun he's ever fucking seen.

He plucks it from the padding and runs his hands over the six shooter gingerly, red barrel to black trigger, as if it were made out of butterfly wings. Tinkling the charms hanging from the bottom – a tiny playing card and three rubies – he sighs adoringly. If this gun were a person, he’d marry it. Shit, he still might; everything’s legal somewhere.  
  
Stiles giggles and practically melts, "That was a good one, Boss."

And that’s all it takes. Forgive and forget is a thing, right? Theo comes forward, brushing aside the vines that try and snap at him, pressing a slow, lingering kiss on Stiles’ cheek – on his tattoo. "Come home,” Theo whispers into his skin.

Suddenly, he’s never felt so out of place. Even the oxygen in his lungs tastes wrong.

Their leaky walls and spray-painted cement covered in dusty velvet drapes. Their messy kitchen and obscenely comfortable sofa. Theo’s record player belting some golden oldie while they dance across the blood stained area rug.

_Home._

Before he can reply embarrassingly quick, Lydia screams in disbelief (which honestly, does she not know him by now?) as her flora falls away, “Stiles! You don't have to go with him.”

Her shriek redirects his attention for a second, long enough for Theo to grab him from behind and close his hand over Stiles’... the one holding his new gun. "Yeah, Stiles. Surely, you don't _have_ to."  
  
Any resistance the girls were hoping he had vanishes the instant Theo's chest touches his back. Both fitting together like cogs in a doomsday machine of Theo's making. With their fingers interlaced, Theo clicks off the safety, aiming the gun at Lydia and Erica.

It would take little to no effort for him to force Stiles to put pressure on the trigger as he drags his mouth along Stiles' ear. "As always, it's your choice."  
  
It is, and it isn't.  

Stiles could easily break the hold – has before – but instead leans into the body radiating sex and malice. No better than the whore Theo claims him to be, the human embodiment of sweet surrender. No, with Theo it's never a choice.  
  
He feels Theo's smirk. "Good boy."  
  
"Listen you chlorine-dipped, bottle blond," Erica hisses. "Stiles isn't stepping one fashion-impaired boot out of this room with your psychotic ass."  
  
Lydia drops her voice down dramatically, "No babe, that's his face."  
  
Stiles can't cover his snort in time, and Theo’s smile is syrupy. "What’s wrong, Lyds? No one pollinate your flower lately? That was pretty dried out."  
  
Lydia's vines that had previously retracted twist down her arms and this time playfully up Stiles' ankle. "Oh don't worry about little ole me. I've had a busy bee hanging around... tending to my pistil."

Well so much for Theo not finding out about _that_. Stiles tells himself that at least he doesn't know about Derek. Can never.

So far no one from Eichen Hill to the lower Narrows has ratted out his recent whereabouts – not that he can blame them. The unlucky asshole to break that news was sure to end up in a shallow grave, fed to Jackson, or worse.

Realization dawns on Theo’s face when Stiles stays quiet. Grabbing Stiles’ jaw, he taps at the scatter of moles. "So we’ve all had our filthy little hands in the same chocolate chip cookie jar, I see. Listen, I can be fair and disregard a few _indiscretions._ No harm done here. I mean we’re practically family now. Mi Stiles es tu Stiles.”

A cold sweat tingles at Stiles’ neck. Already picturing blood drenching the apartment.

“Boss, it wasn’t-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Theo growls, and this time Stiles does flinch. “Tell me Lydia, how was he? Sweet? I know I like when he begs pretty, lets me take him again and again without complain. Or was he the demon?”

Lydia frowns. Stiles hates making her upset; he really does. Just not enough.

The bite to the neck comes as a shock, and Stiles goes pliant in Theo’s arms–whimpering ‘ _daddy’_ as Lydia and Erica share dejected glances. He’s gone. No one in Beacon can refute it, much less anyone here.

“That's the one I prefer,” Theo taunts. “Like a fox on the hunt. After all–” pausing to licking a soothing tongue over the fresh bruise forming on Derek’s previous one. While Lydia looks all the world like she wants to blurt who’s really been marking him up. But contrary to what people think, her heart isn’t made of rotten shrubbery.

Seemingly without missing a beat, Stiles picks up with a half moan, “–control is overrated.”

“Mhm, that's right. Now are you ready to go?” Theo asks, as if it’s a question. “Or do I have to cause a scene?”  

As if this weren't one already. Of course to Theo, a scene involved explosives and unattached limbs.

“This isn't you, Stiles,” Lydia says full of conviction. “You’re letting him get in your head again. I refuse to accept this!”

Theo, ever the drama queen, puts a hand over his chest pretending to be wounded.

Stiles scoffs, “Newsflash Lyds, you don't decide what I do with who. You can refuse it all you want. And how do you know that this isn't the real me? That the other isn’t just an act?”

There’s only one way to end this without bloodshed. It’ll hurt like a bitch, but what doesn't these days? Everyone has a trump card, and he’s never been afraid to use them to his advantage. Why stop now?

He lowers his voice to something nasty. “Or are you jealous? Oh honey, you're practically green with it.”

Lydia’s feelings for Stiles were never a secret, neither was the way he didn't quite return them how she’d prefer. They just didn't fit as anything but friends (sometimes with added benefits). Where Lydia lacked a connection with human emotion, Stiles was overflowing. Friendship was their medium… though that might be off the table after today.

Erica covers her mouth in shock, and Lydia’s face goes flush with embarrassment, both distracted enough for Stiles to move into action.

Giving the girls one last look, _I’m sorry,_ he thinks – and god he’s been apologizing so much lately, never knew he had it in him – as he pulls a smoke bomb from his belt and flicks out the ring. They’ll be unconscious for a few hours, Lydia maybe less. Long enough for him and Theo to get far far away.

It’s better than the alternative of watching three people he cares about fight to put each other in the ground.

Theo smacks a kiss into his hair, “Brilliant!” And pulls Stiles by his hand out into the stairwell.

“Yeah…” he replies guiltily, catching betrayed expressions as Erica and Lydia fall.

 

*

 

**_Joker’s Lair_ **

 

_“Oh fuck.”_

They're barely through the door to their bedroom before Stiles has his pants around his ankles and Theo’s tongue in his ass. The jester ring he wears pinching into Stiles’ skin from Theo spreading his cheeks.

He had practically dragged Stiles here through the city, the tunnels, even though he was a more than willing participant.

"Hmm you taste like someone else,” Theo says casually – like a conversation over brunch – like they’re _normal_. “And somehow I doubt _this_ was that overgrown rutabaga.”  
  
For a split second Stiles panics. _He knows he knows he knows._

“No I don't,” he denies. There's no way Stiles has any evidence on (or in) his person left from Derek. Theo’s fucking with him, and it's tugging at his already frayed nerves.

"Sure you do,” Theo shrugs and pushes in two fingers. Quick, _vindictive._ “You just couldn't keep those slutty legs closed. I'm not surprised. Was it McCall? Someone told me they saw you two on a rooftop a few weeks back. Am I gonna have to shoot a bird out the sky?"  
  
"No, Theo,” Stiles arches his back, the pleasure nearly blinding. “You know there's no one but you. Only you.”  

It's a dirty lie for a dirty secret. Dirty – exactly how he feels with every press of their bodies. Cheating on Derek with Theo, cheating on Theo with Derek. What was that Stiles had said about balance? Was there still a balance to be had? Did he want it if there was?

Stiles moans long and hard as Theo grips one hip and bites the other until his teeth break the skin. Tomorrow Stiles will be a canvas of yellow and purple. A match to Theo’s favorite suit. "Don't lie to me, Stiles,” Theo pants. “I'll make you hold his head while I slit his throat. You're mine… and I intend to keep you that way."

In a flash Stiles’ back thuds against the door, hands under his ass lifting and squeezing bruises onto his flesh.

“ _Yes._ ”

His legs wrap around Theo’s waist like a lifeline. This is what he needed, had been needing since he was forced out. Derek and the girls were lovely and soft and calming like sounds of the ocean from the shore.

Theo's a hurricane.  

Stiles’ nails cut into where he held on from being tossed around. Everything blurring after droplets of blood run down the J inked on Theo’s neck, red on black on white. A chorus of skin on skin, bodies slamming and arching shamelessly. Mouths parted, eyes shut, hitched gasps of _more_ and _harder_ , until Theo comes with a swear. He lets go of Stiles' legs to fist his hair – the sharp pull and the feel of Theo coming inside him sends Stiles spiraling.  
  
After Theo’s done riding out his orgasm, he carries Stiles over to the bed, dropping him with a bounce and kissing his way up his chest, to his mouth, swallowing his overwhelmed gasps.  
  
"Theo," Stiles breaths and he can't even help himself. "Theo, is this what love feels like?"  
  
Theo looks up at him, eyes wild and manic. Stiles knows he's barely even here. Somehow between the fight and the sex, Theo checked the fuck out. To a place where not even Stiles dares navigate.

Theo wasn't always crazy. A psychopath? Sure. But not insane. He was made like the rest of them. Everyone in Beacon has demons – it was built into the city’s very foundation. Owls and bats and foxes, the deranged and the righteous – Theo Raeken was no exception.

But Stiles? He was here.

Where else would he be? Sure he left, but part of Stiles would always be here with Theo to do as he pleased. For him to take. Theo was a taker and Stiles was a giver – the natural order. But that didn't mean he couldn't twist it to his own needs.  
  
So when Theo gives Stiles pain, he takes it gladly, turning it into something ferocious. A savage thing with rows and rows of sharp teeth. A weapon unlike bullets or wood. Something inside. His to wield, his to control. His his _his._

Control may be overrated, but that didn't make it any less valuable.

When Theo does finally answers, it's far away. Ominous as a raven’s caw. "This is what death feels like."  
  
Stiles doesn't speak for the rest of the night, allows Theo to run his hands and mouth over his body. The bed an altar, Theo worshiping him like a lost god. He doesn't speak because once he breaks this spell that's fallen over them, once Theo returns to himself, Stiles will pay with blood and tears. He'll pay for making Theo feel something he’d rather keep buried under several kinds of crazy.  
  
But for now, Theo kisses his ankle, lips ghosting up his leg, between his spread thighs, and Stiles surrenders.  
  
It's nothing. It's everything.

 

*

 

**_Hale Manor_ **

 

When Derek was a child, he hated dancing.

Ballroom, ballet, tap – nothing made him more miserable or made his mother more proud than watching her children perform. She had placed each Hale sibling in whichever medium they preferred. Laura took ballet, Cora tap, Isaac after months of therapy and accepting them took contemporary. Derek tried every type of class at the studio to no avail. He was a catastrophe of gangly limbs and two left feet.

Now he could keep step with the best, charm with a leading hand, another placed on a gorgeous socialite's lower back.

But this, Derek muses as he clicks away at the Batcomputer through photo after photo – this is the dance he excelled at. Flitting through files and seeing what the evidence tells him, what it whispers in his ear as he dips and glides. The city provides the partners; all he has to do is offer his palm.

Scanning every inch of John Stilinski’s case, he feels like that same prepubescent clumsy goofball. All the connections line up perfectly, but it's as if the music hasn't been turned on. He’s fumbling.

Of course, like most things in his life, dancing reminds him of Stiles. Fluidity turned lethal.

When John had died, Theo was little more than a passing thought, what with him being locked away in Eichen for years. And being such a big player, if Theo had murdered the city commissioner, one would assume it’d be a gigantic spectacle, costumed villains and debauchery that could be seen from across the bay.

As far as Derek knows, Theo kept tight-lipped about the whole affair. Only telling Stiles after he’d burrowed under his skin, trapped in obsession. Stiles would die for Theo, so it’s no surprise that he’d brush off the murder of his father if it meant continuing their delusional love.

Derek underestimated Stiles yet again. He not only survived this life, he _flourished._

With a rub of his tired eyes from his peripherals, he see the grandfather clock secret entrance shift and hears the patter of worn sneakers. Derek distinguishes who the feet belong to long before the person comes into view. He doesn't look away from his task. "What'd I do now?"  
  
"You lied to Finstock,” Scott says, like he’s personally offended on Finstock’s behalf.  
  
"You know," Derek starts off-handedly, eyes firmly on the screen, "not every conversation through coms is meant to be heard. And frankly, I lie to Finstock more often then Peter asks questions. Our entire lives are a lie, hence the masks.”

Scott bites the skin of his lip and shuffles awkwardly. “Any word from Stiles?"  
  
"On?" Derek asks, then sighs. "It's been a day Scott; I'm sure he's just busy.”  
  
"With what?"  
  
"Stockpiling ammo, painting his nails, you tell me, since clearly you knew where he was this entire time…” Finally he glances at Scott. “You kept that from me.” Okay so maybe Derek is a little bitter. "You’re also the one who brought him back. What did you think was going to happen, Scott? That we’d fall back in love the second our eyes met like some movie script cliche and be one big happy family again?”  
  
"We were never a big happy family,” Scott says crestfallen. “But Derek, _Derek_ … if Theo finds out he'll rip him apart."  
  
Derek scoffs, "I'm starting to think that's how Stiles prefers it."  
  
"You can't let him go back!" Scott shouts, frustrated. As if Derek wasn't aware.

"Since when have I _let_ Stiles do anything? In fact, I should be trying to stop him from terrorizing the city. But the only way I seem capable of _that_ is by keeping him in my bed."  
  
"That's not good enough. He–he needs our help. I don't want to change him, but I want him safe. Theo is anything but."  
  
"You think I don't know that? You think I don't want him safe? That's all I want! But he's determined to get himself killed. I'm fucking trying–"  
  
"No you aren't! Look at you!" Scott waves his arms to the opened files. "Right back down the rabbit hole. This is what drove him away in the first place! Just... he told you the truth; it was Theo–"  
  
"And the Nogitsune."  
  
Scott nods. "Yeah. So let it go. Stiles sorta has; you can too. It's time."  
  
"But something doesn't _add up_ , if I could just–"  
  
"Derek! Enough."  
  
"Okay," Derek sighs, the fight going out of him all at once. "Okay."

Closing out the files, he follows Scott out of the cave into the dimly lit hallway. He must have lost track of time, since dusk now paints the horizon a swirl of pink and orange. Not the bright gold of the morning sun from when he’d entered.

It’ll take more than a conversation with Scott for him to let this go. Because letting go means admitting defeat. Defeat against someone who stole the last parental figure he had. Defeat to Theo.

_Not again._

 

*

 

**_The Stacked Deck Bar, Docks_ ** **_  
_ ** **_12:58 AM_ **

 

“–and then I said ‘What do ya think I am, crazy?!’” Theo shouts, getting overzealous with his storytelling. The crowd goes wild with laughter. Stiles can even see Jackson’s scaly back shake from his barstool.  

Peter ever the suck-up, raises his glass to Theo. “What happened next, J?” Passing Stiles a lewd once over when Theo takes a sip of scotch.

Theo hooks a finger through one of Stiles’ belt loops from his perch in Theo’s lap. Stiles playfully slaps it away and goads, “Yeah, Boss, what happened next?”

After a dramatic pause Theo answers, “He said no, so I chopped up his mother and mailed her to him piece by piece.”

The room goes silent, no one so much as breathes. That is, until Theo starts giggling and everyone joins in. Stiles’ sides aching from the revelry.

He’s not a hundred percent sure how they got here from the lair. One moment he was doing lines off Theo’s wrist which led to a sloppy rushed blow job, and the next they were barging through the doors while Theo shouted that drinks were on him.

It's a damn miracle Theo didn't leave his strung out ass in a dumpster like last time.

Depending on the drug Stiles can be anywhere between a bucket full of giggles or an emotional overbearing wreck. Not that he ever knows what substances Theo or Lydia are tossing his way. He’s not picky. Up or down, he's in it for the reprieve from reality, not quality. Maybe if this supervillain gig doesn't pan out, he’ll become a junkie.

What a bright future awaits him.

But until then he’ll sway in Theo’s arms at this sticky dive and shoot straw papers at the back of Jennifer Blake’s head. Forty points for the unblemished side and sixty for the burned disfigured one.

“Hey, Two Face!” Stiles yells over the roar of the patrons. When she turns, Stiles blows into the straw and hits her right in her good eye.

He cracks up when she flips him off. If they were anywhere else, it would be a bloodbath, but this is Theo's territory. His guys, his profit. The kind of place where a parole card doubles as a membership. No one would dare raise a barrel to Stiles without a death wish.

Theo hiccups adorably and smacks Stiles’ ass, pulling him in for a kiss that can't be anything less than public indecency. Surrounded by mobsters and other ilk, they know who’s in charge and when to shut their eyes and mouths.

Theo kisses along Stiles’ collarbone and whispers, “C’mon Sweetheart, where’s my Princess huh?”

In a snap, Stiles slips into that headspace like a rubber band stretched to pop. His whole self tightening around each syllable. Heat flames across his cheeks, between his legs. A few more times and he'll be dripping. Ready to do whatever Theo wants – to be his _sweetheart_ , his _good girl._

At least that was the plan, until some worker who must be new clears his throat, and the clientele freeze again, this time out of curiosity. Waiting to see what the Clown Prince of Crime will do. Everyone loves a good Joker tale to tell. Most crime bosses won't even hire you if you haven't met Theo and survived. At this point, Stiles’ resume was as thick as a fucking dictionary. Not to mention, anyone with half a brain knows Theo has a shorter fuse than an electric bomb.

Free entertainment.

Stiles is nothing if not quick on the draw. His hand going immediately to his gun, the safety off before he walked through the door. He’s been sober for the last ten minutes give or take, his tweaked body chemistry metabolizing anything in his system faster than average.

This interruption is really killing his fake buzz.

Didn't this asshat get that they were having a celebration? That Theo had to parade Stiles around to keep his reputation untarnished? Because what would Beaconians think if Theo couldn't control his boytoy?

Theo, ever the gentleman, looks up politely, "Yes?"  
  
"I was… um, wondering if you'd l-like a room, for your... activities," the guy suggests, fidgeting with his bar towel.  
  
Theo laughs like an oil spill, "What if I want to bend him over this table and fuck him right here? Are you going to try and stop me?” 

_Now there’s an idea._

Stiles makes a squeal and a snicker combined as he pictures how appealing the man’s intestines would look on the floorboards.

"N–no sir, Mr. Joker,” the dishrag-draped rando stutters, then scampers away to whatever hole he crawled out of.

"Well that was anticlimactic," Stiles pouts.  
  
"I'll show you a climax." Theo grins slyly, throwing Stiles over his shoulder and carrying him outside.

Stiles shrieks and swats any part of Theo he can reach from this angle, “Put me down, you bastard!” Each word broken up with tiny titters. Titters of silly love directed in the general vicinity of Theo’s… everything.

Once they hit Crime Alley, Theo rights Stiles on his feet.

“What the shit, Boss?” Stiles glares confused. “I was only kidding. I fully expect you to carry my tanked ass all the way home.”

Theo looks beyond Stiles to the street opening and licks his teeth. “I think I'm gonna need both hands for this endeavour.”

The overbearing perfume of wild roses and calla lilies sting his eyes a second too late. Thorned vines circle his middle, lifting him into the air. Both he and Theo are pinned to opposite sides of the alley.

With a wince Stiles calls out, “Miss me already, Lyds?”

“About as much as an unconcentrated herbicide,” Lydia says as she struts gracefully, clovers growing from her footsteps.

Stiles struggles, but the brambles dig deeper into his skin, puncturing in some places. “That hurts, babe. And here I thought we had something spec–” A whip slices his cheek before he can finish the remark. “Fuck!” Stiles cries, blood welling over the perfect line. “God, Erica, really? The face?”

“Thought it could use a little more red,” Erica replies. Her voice as cutting as her claws.

Stiles needs to trash talk less and think of a goddamn plan. He can't reach his gun or any of his hidden knives with such limited mobility. Across from him, Theo is tapping the morse code for distraction. At least one of them is on the ball.

And no one can distract better than Stiles Stilinski.

Turns out he doesn't even have to. Lydia is so furious she starts monologuing before he can open his mouth. Stiles can't blame her, nothing sets the mood like a good monologue. “You know, you should be _thanking_ us. After everything you put us through,” she shakes her head and flips her hair. “I'm sorry it had to come to this. But I'm so fucking tired of you always crawling through my door hurt and crying like a kicked puppy.”

"Wow, way to kinkshame, Lyds. Gotta say, you’re beginning to be a real _thorn in my side_ ,” he finishes with a crooked smirk and a nose crinkle.

She doesn't find him even a little amusing. Instead the plants tighten unequivocally. "I'm not talking about the bruises we’ve iced or the cuts we’ve stitched. Consider this tough love, since you love it so much.”

Theo looks all the world like he can't hear a word. Why would he? Nothing Lydia’s saying is news to him. He knows– _knew_ where Stiles usually went to lick his wounds.

“You're supposed to be my friends!” Stiles fumes. If he were to really be honest with himself, the girls trying to keep him from Theo hurt more than any fist or weapon.

Lydia crosses her olive toned arms. “ _Friends_ don't throw smoke grenades at one another, Stiles!”

Behind her, Stiles sees Theo slip a blade from his coat pocket and discreetly saw at the foliage restraints. Pursing his lips, he gives Stiles a distinct look of _keep going_.

“You don't get it, Lyds. I love him. You know love? That thing you feel when you aren't apathetic to the plight of us mere humans?”

She grinds her teeth, failing to notice Theo soundlessly dropping to the ground, “Stop living in the shadows of absurd men! You don't need them. _We_ don't need them.” Stepping forward she places a hand on his cheek, and he nudges it affectionately. “You're your own big, bright signal in the sky. I wish you saw that.”

Her moss green eyes and lingering hints of freesia captivate him. He only shakes her thrall when they both hear a scuffle and turn towards their partners.

Stiles can't help but remember the previous week. Derek whispering in his ear, fingers tracing moles along his bare torso, “ _If you lose your focus, the fight's already over.”_

The sentiment rings true as Lydia’s concentration shifts, and the vines loosen enough for Stiles to slither free. He’ll take the scrapes; it's recirculation that's a real bitch.

Speaking of, Erica winds up her whip, and fuck if that isn't hot. “Hey freak, I hear you like it rough. Luckily so do I,” she purrs, angling it back to strike.

In doing so, the rope soars, only to have Theo catch it mid air. “Bad kitty,” he scolds, and with a twist of his wrist he rips the handle away from Erica.

Stiles darts to cover Theo before Lydia can tangle him again, and the four face each other poised to end this. Stiles armed with two ring daggers from his thigh holster, Theo brandishing Erica’s whip, and both the girls loaded with their own metahuman extras.

“Wait!” Erica puts her razor sharp gloves up, her enhanced hearing having caught something the other three hadn’t. “You guys hear that? Lyds–" 

Lydia’s powers crawl back into her skin, understanding whatever threat that has Erica on edge, “Until next time boys.” She turns to leave parting with a casual, “Oh, and Stiles? I expect to see you soon, regardless of whose bed you warm.”

Erica snorts and follows Lydia’s lead.

Stiles smiles to himself. _Still friends then._ He considers this olive branch as good as any. Meaning that while they’ll never turn him away, they also won't accept his relationship with Theo as it stands.

Everything’s coming up Stiles.

The girls have disappeared from view, leaving him and Theo to the streetlights and cold corners. The moon hanging low and halved. Maybe they should go back inside and grab another drink… or six. Maybe he should jump off the nearest roof and see who tries to catch him first.

Warily, he questions Theo, “What's got their panties in a bunch?”

Theo takes a deep breath then releases a demented cackle reserved for a certain black clad vigilante. “I smell a bat!”

Stiles closes his eyes. Looks like he spoke too soon.

Headlights blare and tires screech as the huge hulking everything-proof Batmobile drifts to a stop in the middle of the street. The metal stops two feet from where they stand.

Now, Stiles is no traffic cop, but that park job can't be legal.

As soon as Derek’s in his sights, Stiles doesn't give him an inch, kicking him in the chest until his cape meets the car’s hood. 

If Theo thought Stiles was being suspiciously violent, he doesn't comment. Too busy watching from the sidelines. Childish glee coloring his face like a nightmare.

Derek finally overcomes his initial shock and blocks Stiles’ boot, sweeping his leg and attempting to trip him up. What does he think Stiles is, an amateur? Hands to the pavement, Stiles cartwheels away, standing with daggers raised.

“Now now, this is hardly a fair fight,” Theo says, using the whip to lash at Stiles’ left hand. 

“ _Motherfuck_!” Stiles yelps, as that daggers fall from his grip.

Derek stares on suspiciously, his stance never unguarded.

“There we are,” Theo nods approvingly. “No need to thank me, Bats. That one's on the house.”

Derek’s grimace is shadowed by his cowl. “Go to hell.”

“Without you? I couldn't bear it.”

Stiles twitches at every almost move Derek makes. This is what Theo wants. This is how he earns back his loyalty. No mercy, no hesitation.

If a single punch is pulled, Theo will know. Does Stiles think Theo will kill them both? No. He’d make Derek watch as he skinned Stiles alive. Torture them until they were on the edge of death then make them kill each other.

With that thought he rushes Derek, giving it everything he has. Derek isn’t stupid, he’ll catch on soon enough.

That, ladies and gents, is when the real fun starts.

 

*

 

Derek wishes he had stayed home and played Monopoly with Scott and Isaac - even if they always made him the little bag of money. He _liked_ the bag of money. It was cute, classic, slumped. All good things.

At least then the possibility of this particular scenario happening would go down significantly.

If he wasn't crashing one date night, he was crashing another. And here _he_ was supposed to be the most eligible bachelor in Beacon, dating like it was his civic duty.

He sighs internally. More like eternally.

He hadn't expected to find Stiles and Theo when he’d gotten an alert on his wristband of a disturbance around Crime Alley.

Honestly he shouldn't be surprised, what with the scene being their usual haunt. Stiles attacking him right out of the gate was a bit unexpected, but when in Beacon.

Fighting Stiles was second nature. Hell, he’d been fighting him –  _them –_ from the start. Like the fact that Stiles was too young, that Derek was too old. That they had to keep it a secret. That Stiles deserved someone better.  
  
And there was nothing Derek hated more because he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he'd lose every time.

Emotionally, at least.

Physically, they were a match made in heaven. Both their techniques complemented one another: speed, agility, determination, skill. A finely tuned battle of red, yellow, and black.

Annoyingly, Theo continues to lean on the building’s side, anticipatory and glowering. Not even looking like he could decide which outcome was preferable.

But, if they play this right, they'll both be off the hook. Just long enough for the dust to settle. Suspicion was a notorious enemy when in the mind of someone as obsessive as the Joker. They had to get in the clear now, or they never would.

With Derek’s thoughts reeling to the present, Stiles holds nothing back. He's a flurry of swift jabs, acrobatics, and underhanded tricks. But Derek isn't new to any. Especially not from the beauty dishing it out.

Dodging a stab (or thinking he is), he notices tiny dots leaving trails over every inch of Stiles’ pale exposed skin, through torn clothes, as well as a thin slice parallel with his ear, clotting.

Derek’s done nothing to cause this, nor would he. _The Sirens_ , he thinks, recognizing their paired methods.

“Stiles, you’re bleeding!” Derek interjects, successfully pausing the skirmish.

"Takes one to know one," Stiles retorts.

"Wha–"  
  
Stiles looks up from under his dark lashes and darker makeup, his quick fingers spinning the ring of his dripping iridescent dagger. The blood, _Derek's blood_ , flicks off with a schnick, staining the cement.  
  
The city is being fed, insatiable with bloodlust. And despite his slow uptake, he's realizing so is Stiles. Pupils dilated, teeth embedded in his lower lip, he’s starving. The manor was his captivity and Theo his liberator. How long had that been the missing piece Derek refused to acknowledge?  
  
Derek gives his oozing bicep a passing glance. Vaguely he recalls something about focus and keeping it. He wipes over the cut, the sting bone deep. The circumstantial betrayal stinging deeper.

Damn, he didn't even feel that one.

"Batman!" Scott's voice echoes through the comm. "Listen, Isaac doesn't know I'm down here or what you're up to. You gotta get it done quick. I can't keep Batgirl away for long."  
  
Derek grunts as he uses Stiles' momentum to propel him over his head.  
  
Scott laughs humorlessly, "You and that best friend of mine better know what you're doing. I hate wearing funeral suits. Makes me feel like Johnny Cash.”

"This wasn't planned," Derek whispers fiercely.  
  
Stiles winks so subtlety that if Derek weren't watching his every move for an opening he'd miss it.  
  
"Keep telling yourself that. Either way I'm giving you the same advice you gave me when I started dating your brother; wrap it up."  
  
The comm goes dead, and Derek weighs the pros and cons of having a sidekick.

“Der,” Stiles says soft, low. A tone you use when professing love confessions, not throwing punches. “Theo expects me to win this. He thinks I'm better than you."

Derek warily passes Theo a glance to be sure he can’t hear them. "Are you?"  
  
"Am I?" Stiles asks, smug with a bruise forming under his jaw and blood leaking from his nose. He blots at it with a leather gloved hand, his uncovered fingertips rubbing together. "I'd say it's fifty-fifty. But Theo doesn't care about odds; he cares about losing. You gotta throw it."  
  
"You want me to play dead?"

"Not dead, just incapacitated. He’ll believe it. That’s all we need.” Stiles’ eyes shine, too large and pleading. Derek’s half terrified he’d burn the city to ash if Stiles asked. 

Futilely he stutters, “I don't–”

Stiles tsks, “Wrong answer, big guy. But because my IQ is over 160, I figured you'd say that.”

At a rapid pace his body autonomy shuts down, starting with his wounded arm, and he falls, unable to move.

_Jackson’s venom._ The seemingly iridescent gleam of Stiles’ blade should’ve been a clue where the gait of Stiles’ overconfidence wasn’t.

Derek watches Theo walk to them, pulling Stiles into what he assumes is a painful kiss. Teeth clacking and old blood mixing with new. Feels putrid jealousy coat his insides, with every hint of tongue between lips.

After a moment of Stiles rifling through his own pocket, he drops a joker card on Derek's immobile chest. He puts all his trust in hoping that the card isn't of the explosive variety. Aware of the game but not how far Stiles is willing to go.

Once it lands and nothing happens, he breathes a relieved sigh. Just thick, stained paper.

“Good boy,” Theo praises.

Stiles blushes, and begins tending to his own abrasions, cleaning weapons on his dirty shirt sleeve. “Take me home, daddy.”

Derek blanches but stays quiet.

They part with Theo's voice sounding out like a church bell in the empty night air, "Catch me later, Bats!" 

Stiles doesn't look back. But Derek shuts his eyes and pictures Stiles’ tenacious expression before he last jumped out of Derek’s window.

_“I’m coming back.”_

 

*

  
  
**_Joker's Lair, Dungeon of Horrors_**

 

So maybe leaving a temporarily paralyzed Derek on the street was a dick move. Along with everything leading up to it.

And maybe he should've given a bit more of a heads up before putting Killer Croc juice in Derek’s bloodstream. But hey, better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?

_Cora is close_ , he reassures himself as he walks away, Theo clinging.

Scott knew what Stiles had up his sleeve, he made damn sure of that. His subtle acknowledgment that Scott made his point outside the bedroom the night he left. He wasn't just being reckless, understood what and who were at stake.

But that didn’t mean he couldn't have a _time_ with it.

The most important part of being a supervillain is to have fun and always be yourself. Something he has absolutely no problem with. One might even say he thrives when laws and morals are crumbling around him.

Once back at their lair, Theo strips them both down and pulls Stiles into the shower. Taking extra care to clean every inch of him with gentle, caressing hands, cooing praises into his skin. _So beautiful, Pet. So helpful taking down that mean old Bat. Perfect, perfect for me._

Stiles thinks Lydia possibly slipped some poppy extract into his system, and he’s dreaming or dead. This is bliss. Like a handful of blow while getting fucked in front of the sunset or some romantic shit. Stiles couldn’t give a damn if the tunnels collapsed over their heads.

He's _happy._

Or at least he was until he felt a stabbed syringe release into his neck. It's also pretty hard to be happy waking up strapped to Theo’s favorite chair in the lab in nothing but sweatpants.

At least his ass won't get cold.

“Boss?” Stiles calls, wiggling against his restraints. Five-point, _fucking hell_.

“Darling!” is the only answer Theo gives from across the room, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down under his angular waistcoat. But his eyes sparkle. They sparkle like the blue of a fire.

Full teeth Theo smiles, and Stiles ceases his fight with a thud against the vinyl seat. Staring directly into the overhead lamp, Stiles plans to settle into subspace and relents that he can’t visit Derek again until he heals from whatever Theo has planned.

By the looks of each reflective tool on Theo’s vast tray of goodies… he hopes he won’t be too late.

But before the first blade even hits its mark, Stiles is screaming. A low electric current that had been running through the chair and the metal holdings is amped up to what he’s sure is some astronomical voltage and seizes his body. It must be abnormally high, because Stiles can take a taser and not even flinch.

(A method of defense used by orderlies at Eichen. Theo wanted him prepared.)

With a snarl he shouts, “Motherfucker! Are you going for torture or frying me like a goddamn egg? Silly me, I thought you liked my brain _functioning._ ” His hair stands on end, fingers twitching uncontrollably. A hint of rust lingers on his tongue.

“You know what I really like?”

“Snuff films on a rainy day?” Stiles grits.

If he wanted to play, this would be a different story. He’d willingly let his body go, submitting like a good little doll for Theo to play Operation. But the shower… _the shower._

God, he’s getting sloppy. Theo was so loving, and maybe that should’ve sent off warning bells. But shit, it had felt so good. So good to be loved.

Only it wasn’t, because they weren’t.

They weren’t.

Theo’s grip on the control knob falters, “Are you giving me lip? Come now, Sweet. Let’s not make me more angry than with what we’re starting. You broke the rules. You take the punishment.”

“Christ, Theo, what I _took_ was Derek down, exactly how you wanted! Was me not stepping over his limp body evident enough? Should I have danced the Foxtrot on his chest? What. Do. You. Want.”

The knob twists and so do Stiles’ insides. Tears leak from his eyes, and all he feels is rage replacing every bit of pain.

He risked everything, and it didn’t even work. Theo's still determined to rip him apart.

“That mouth,” Theo growls, “drives me fucking crazy.” Suddenly he’s in Stiles’ face, which honestly is preferable over the box scrambling his organs. “You left me. You don’t leave _me_! I’m the leaver, you’re the, the, not leaver!”

“The stayer?” Stiles asks, wincing.

Theo sighs, as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. Sure, maybe if Atlas had a murder streak a mile wide and six different personality disorders. “Now as I was saying, was that what I enjoy over all the killing, the sex, a gin and tonic with a lemon wedge – is submission. _That_ is what I want. And honestly, I’m doing you a favor. Because if naughty pets don’t learn their place… there won’t _be_ a place any longer.”

So this wasn’t about Derek or the girls. Great, this was fixable. All he had to do was convince a mad man that the situation he thinks happened didn’t? No that’ll never work. _Think, Stiles, use your big brain._

Thought is so far from his ability right now he might as well be a broom.

_Stupid stupid stupid._

Begging it is then.

“Theo, babe, you gotta believe I'd never leave you. I know what it's like to be left behind. I love you.”

“Sounds like a whole lotta bark with none of the bite,” and he turns the current to its highest setting.

“You–you're right,” Stiles lies. “It's my fault. Everything is my fault. I won't leave you again.” And with a last ditch effort, “Punish me. I can take it.”

Theo grins like the world is burning by his own hand and flips the switch once more.

Stiles screams until he blacks out. There's nothing in the dark, it's almost peaceful.

**Author's Note:**

> [the trash blog :o](http://smokesforwolves.tumblr.com)


End file.
